August 1, 2026

I used to send you songs.

Every Monday at noon, pacific time: one mixtape, ten songs. I spent my weekends digging so you didn't have to. Streaming was new then. Everything ever recorded was suddenly a click away, and most of it went unheard. The idea was simple. Pull ten of them out and hand them to people who trusted me. For some of those artists it was the first real audience they'd had.

Then I stopped for a few years, started a family, and taught myself to build better software. The building turned out to be the easy part. I'd finish something I liked and then struggle to get anyone to look at it, buried the same way the artists had been. A lot of you know the feeling. What used to take a team of people months now takes an afternoon, so everyone is building. Nearly everyone I talk to is making an app, selling a product, or designing their dream on a couple acres. Most of it goes unseen by people who would have loved it.

What I keep coming back to is that having everything available turned out to matter less than I thought. Someone still has to sift through it. And what's worth pulling out hasn't changed much: beautiful things made with care, that'll still be good in fifty years. That was true of records. It's becoming more true for all the things I care about.

This wave looks a lot like the last one.

Stay tuned,

P.S. Noon was never a one-man show. To the friends who helped build the apps, curate mixtapes, run the pop-up shops, promote the record label, and keep the train on the tracks: you know who you are, and thank you.